


The Art of Negotiation

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Established Relationship, Everybody Happy, F/M, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-The Hanging Tree, also not using words to communicate, barely anything actually The Hanging Tree related, using words to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: When Nightingale needs somewhere safe to recuperate after a case Peter takes him to Beverley's house. Because it was closer than the Folly and not for any more complicated reasons that he really doesn't want to think about right now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after The Hanging Tree, minor spoilers for that and the comics, not necessary to have read them to get what's going on.

Ordinarily Nightingale would be putting up more of a struggle by now which was one sign, though not the first by any means, that the magically enhanced “fairy dust” (Sahra's description, not mine) had got into his lungs and was affecting him more than he wanted to let on.

As it was I was in no mood for an argument and besides we were nearly there anyway. There being Beverley's house, which was closer to the crime scene than the Folly and because Nightingale had refused to be admitted to hospital, “I just need to sleep it off”, but had then taken what I considered to be an alarming turn for the worse as I was driving us home.

So, anyway, here we were. Nightingale's been here plenty of times before of course, to pick me up or drop me off, but I don't think he's ever stepped over the threshold. I wasn't sure if that was a Nightingale thing or a Beverley thing, or more likely a bit of both. They get on, and I know they talk sometimes, but Nightingale has never exactly had reason to be anything other than politely respectful to any of the Rivers until I showed up.

“This isn't the Folly,” Nightingale said, leaning heavily into my side. I had one arm around his waist to keep him upright and the other was fumbling around in my pocket for the key Beverley had given me. Really the only reason I thought I had a chance of pulling this off at all was because I knew Beverley was at a study group until late tonight.

“It's Bev's house,” I replied, aware of the heat Nightingale was generating pressed into my side. “She won't mind.”

This was possibly an outright lie and Nightingale probably glared at me, but I was too busy getting us both through the front door in one piece to worry about that.

Perhaps it was my nagging about cleanliness that was the real reason Beverley had never invited Nightingale in before, I mused, as I navigated us around stacks of books and papers from her coursework. Not that I tried to do it too often, just it was a bit more our space than just hers these days, and well.

Nightingale had clearly given in to the inevitable by now so it wasn't too difficult to get his coat, jacket and shoes off and manoeuvre him into Beverley's bed. I had briefly considered the merits of the sofa but decided that a man who'd been shot twice had no business being laid out on a sofa on my watch.

There was a cold snap in the air so I pulled the French windows closed, but didn't lock them, in case Beverley came back that way. I really hoped she didn't, because this was already going to take some explaining and I could do without the inevitable Goldilocks jokes.

I stared down at Nightingale and was relieved to see the colour coming back to his cheeks. He'd looked awfully grey for a while back there. It had reminded me all too clearly of the first time I'd watched him sleep, when I hadn't known whether or not he'd be waking up again.

I stepped out of the room to check in with Stephanopoulos and then Molly, and then hesitated on the threshold, considering. I could make some tea, work on writing up my notes, head Beverley off at the pass before she asked me if I'd lost my mind. Or.

Or I could kick off my shoes and lay on top of the covers next to Nightingale, telling myself that I was too tired to sleep on a lumpy sofa, that Nightingale needed me there to keep an eye on him, that this way I'd spot Beverley coming back.

But really I did it because I wanted to, and couldn't convince myself not to.

* * * * *

You'd think after living so long with Molly, and being woken up by her sudden presence in my bedroom more times than I could count, that I'd be more alert than most when finding myself stared at while asleep. Sadly, this was not the case, at least not with Beverley. Maybe she was quieter than Molly, or maybe I just thought she was less likely to kill me in my sleep. Neither thought was really all that comforting as Beverley's nails scratched against my ankle and her hand came up to grab my knee before I accidentally turned my surprised jerk into a kick to Nightingale's groin.

I came awake pretty sharpish then. It must have been late, far later than for me to easily get away with the just having a nap excuse. I couldn't see her expression, but there was a definite tenseness about her body. She stood up and jerked her head toward the kitchen. I knew better than to dawdle.

“He got infected with something,” I said, as soon as I judged we were safely out of Nightingale's earshot. “Here was closer than the Folly.”

“It's fine,” Beverley said, in that universal way all women do that means that it's anything but. “Tea?”

She started boiling the kettle while I considered my next move.

“I know he's `the Nightingale'” I said, feeling slightly ridiculous. I respected him because he was a good man who was willing to adapt his thinking, not because I was in awe of the legend that had grown up around him since Ettersburg; calling him `the Nightingale' seemed strangely disrespectful when it came from me.

“You think _that's_ the problem?” she asked, turning around to face me.

I hesitated. There was a definite ghost of a smile now and it was accompanied by a look both she and Nightingale shared. It was the “it's about time you caught up” look.

Now, sometimes I get that look and I know exactly what it means but it pays to make them think that I don't, sometimes they know that too. And sometimes I genuinely have no idea where a conversation is going. This was one of those times.

“Oh, _Peter,_ ” Beverley said. She finished making the tea and I waited patiently as she handed me my mug. “If we're going to do this, there needs to be some negotiation first.”

I took a sip of tea and then added a spoonful of sugar. “This?”

“Nightingale in my bed,” she said, expression decidedly neutral.

“I – what?”

Of course, at this point I had some idea of where the conversation was going. I just didn't know whether I wanted her to know that, wanted to have this conversation at all or wanted to pretend that I didn't know what this conversation was about. Or something.

“You brought him here instead of the Folly.”

“I knew he'd be safe here,” I said, automatically. Judging by Bev's expression it had been the right thing to say.

“Of course he is. He knows that too.”

Nightingale's ability to sneak up on me is a thing of beauty so I don't know how long he'd been standing behind me, or who the looks I'd thought Beverley was giving me were really for.

I did notice, as I turned in my seat to find Nightingale leaning against the door frame, that at some point he'd removed his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows too and he'd removed his watch. He looked very much like someone I could imagine, well, someone I could imagine.

“How do you feel?” I asked, shifting a little so I could see both his and Bev's expressions.

“A little tired still, but much more myself, thank you,” he said, a little more formal than usual.

Beverley nodded, as if she'd been the one asking the question. Maybe she had for all I know.

“This is something you want?” she asked. Definitely not talking to me, which was just as well because I think I'd forgotten how to breathe at that point.

“This is highly inappropriate,” Nightingale said as way of an answer. But he said it the same way he told me not to spend time experimenting, knowing it was going to happen anyway, and not really minding.

“I don't have any objections,” Beverley said. “If there are rules.”

I really felt like I ought to be saying something at this point, but my mind was a little too full of hope I didn't even know I had.

Nightingale looked over at me, in that unnerving way he has of knowing when I'm not going to ask for something for myself because chances are I'm never going to get it.

More than anyone I think he's the one that tries the hardest to get me what I want. It's not something about him I'd consciously realised till just then. But I didn't want him to do this just for me. And he clearly wasn't doing it for Beverley.

“Peter?” Nightingale asked, voice soft if a little hoarse.

“You're still under the influence,” I said. Beverley and Nightingale sighed at the same time, the same weary disappointment that I was going to make this difficult by insisting on different priorities than the ones they felt were important.

“Perhaps I should lie back down,” Nightingale said, and started to move back to the bedroom.

He stumbled a little and I hurried to help, my body fitting neatly next to his in what I realised belatedly had been a deliberate fashion. Beverley bringing up the rear was the clincher.

He got into the bed easily enough once it was clear I wasn't going to do something daft like make my excuses and leave, though I had in fact been coming up with some pretty urgent work that needed doing. But it was out in the open now, or at least the possibility of it was, and none of us was coward enough to put the lid back on the box.

I didn't resist when Beverley pushed me to lie down next to him, just as I had been when she'd found us. It seemed strangely natural, after I'd told my brain to shut up for a minute.

The moon was brighter now, shining through the open doors, and I could see the way Nightingale was watching me. It was the same way he'd always watched me, I just hadn't been paying attention before.

“And now he wakes up,” Beverley said to Nightingale, though she carded her fingers through my hair to soften her words.

“I'm not sure that he's the only one,” Nightingale admitted, which made me feel a little better.

He and Beverley than had an almost silent conversation that involved some serious eyebrow wriggling. If it had been almost anyone other than these two I would have worried what they had in mind, but it was, so I didn't. Beverley pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. And Nightingale moved forward and kissed me on the lips, just the hint of tongue.

“You'll have to wait for the rest until the morning,” he said, that mischievous twinkle in his eye that I knew was the harbinger of all kinds of trouble.

“I will?” I asked, because apparently there was a punchline coming.

“So you can properly judge the difference between under the influence and absolutely sure of what I want.”

I don't know whether it was his words or the way he was looking at me that had the greatest effect, but I was rock hard in seconds and seriously regretting worrying about Nightingale's state of mind in the first place.

Though of course I wasn't, not really, and neither were he and Beverley. They were just terrible people.

“This is going to be fun,” Beverley said, patting me on the back and then standing up. I didn't stick out my tongue at her, because I'm a grown man, but she knew perfectly well that I wanted to.

“We'll finish up in the morning?” she asked Nightingale.

“If that's agreeable?”

“I'll make breakfast.” I must have made some sound at that because she turned a glare on me. (Beverley has many talents, anything domestic isn't one of them). “Peter can make breakfast while we sort out the details,” she amended.

Nightingale gifted her with one of those smiles of his that I thought were reserved for only me. I found I didn't mind.

“That sounds perfect.”

Beverley's shoulders relaxed then and I realised she'd been nervous about all this too. It was a relief to know that she wanted this as much as me. And Nightingale. That this was something that was important, and ours, and not anything I'd imagined being able to have even twelve hours ago.

“I'll be outside,” she said, heading towards her river before I did anything to mess things up, like invite her to join us. Maybe later. Or maybe never. But either way it was too soon to bring it up.

I watched her leave and then turned to Nightingale. His eyelids were drooping and I could see he was about to lose the battle with sleep, so I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, barely a ghost of a kiss.

“Compromise the experiment,” he mumbled and I bit back a laugh.

“Testing variables,” I replied, and dared to edge a little closer to him, still wired but just as determined not to touch myself as I was not to touch him. Not yet.

He opened his eyes once, gave me a searching look which said everything I needed him to do just then, and then relaxed himself for sleep.

I watched him for as long as I could but his soft breathing, coupled with the soft splashing of the water outside made it hard for me to keep my eyes open for very long. And eventually I drifted off too, a warm coil of anticipation for what was to come settled somewhere near my heart, where, I suppose, they'd always been.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Art of Negotiation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057068) by [momopods (momotastic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momotastic/pseuds/momopods)




End file.
